Hogwild
by AllyKat D
Summary: Jarod is consumed by a pretend when he becomes an outlaw biker to join a gang and expose a gun running ring. Raines' threat motivates Miss Parker to find Jarod, and when she does, it becomes a mission to rescue the man she once knew.
1. Plans & Schemes

**Title**: Hogwild

**Author**: Allykat D.

**Rating**: R (language, sexual situations, violence, and more language)

**Keywords**: MPJR/P/A

**Summary**: Jarod is consumed by a pretend when he becomes an outlaw biker to join a gang and expose a gun running ring. Raines' threat motivates Miss Parker to find Jarod, and when she does, it becomes a mission to rescue the man she once knew. 

**Spoilers**: Pretender: Isle of the Haunted.

**Thanks to**: Lindsay for the transcript of the telephone conversation between Jarod and Miss Parker in IotH.  And to the paramedics in the coffee shop for all their medical help and advice.  It's good to get it right!

**Author's note**:  I had this posted, but took it down to redo it and ad a new scene.  I think it flows better.  Also, when I post to fanfiction.net, some of the italics are being dropped.  I have no idea why.  So to designate italics, I've fallen back on my old habit of enclosing them in asterisks.  
  


**HOGWILD**

**Chapter One**: Plans & Schemes  
  


**Phoenix, Arizona**  
  


Outside a faded green house, Juanito stepped out of the front door and smiled up at the tall, dark haired man whom he called his big brother.

"What are we going to do today?" he asked. Last week on their day, Jarod took him to the water park where he rode on big water slides and slid down manmade rivers in inner tubes. It had been great fun. Much of the time, Jarod seemed like a big kid to Juanito and not like the other grownups he knew. Jarod was fun.

Jarod reached over and mussed Juanito's dark hair. "How about a game of basketball," he suggested and held up the basketball he had tucked under one arm. "After that we'll go for a horseback ride in the desert. I met a rancher who has a nice pinto pony just for you."

Juanito's eyes lit up. "A pinto pony! That'd be cool." He had always wanted to be a cowboy. He followed Jarod down the cracked cement walk to the sidewalk. 

Jarod and Juanito dribbled the basketball back and forth to one another as they walked toward the high school and the courts. Jarod had been a member of the Big Brothers group for several months now, and though he was a big brother to several boys, Juanito was his favorite. He'd come to Phoenix on a lead about his sister that he'd received over the Internet. The lead had turned out to be a false one, but he'd stayed in town anyway. Phoenix seemed an unlikely town for the Centre to search for him. 

Two of Juanito's neighbors, young men who rode loud Harley Davidson motorcycles, sat on the edge of a sagging front porch and waved to Juanito and Jarod.

"_Como esta, Juanito y Jarod_?" one called. "Come and have cerveza with us, eh?" The invitation was made in good humor. They always offered, Jarod always declined. They even offered to teach him to ride their motorcycles. Jarod had to admit fascination with the machines, gleaming with chrome and meticulously maintained, their perfect condition in sharp contrast to the shabby house.

"I get to ride a pony!" Juanito called to them.

"How about a Harley?" the other called. "You'll get lots of chicks. Come on Jarod, surely you could use a few hot mommas hanging off your arm."

Jarod laughed and shook his head. "Last time I had a hot momma, she put me in handcuffs and pulled a gun on me."

"Sounds like my kind of woman!" one called and they both laughed. "Introduce us!"  

Jarod figured he couldn't win that conversation, and kept walking.

The neighborhood where Juanito lived was not a good one, and to call it lower middle class might be too kind. The houses were ill kept and weeds had taken over most of the front lawns. Exteriors consisted of peeling paint, and the rusted skeletons of various vehicles on blocks littered the sidewalk curbs. A few owners had made attempts to clean up their houses with too-bright paint and new plants, but the blight of the area seemed to infect everything. Neither of them took note of a late model car, patches of bondo marred its chalky blue paint job, that slowly turned the corner a block away and cruised down the street. A window opened. Sunlight glinted off a gun barrel. Jarod turned and everything slowed down. 

"Get down!" he screamed, his words drowned out by a barrage of gunfire.

Bullets shattered windows and ripped through the house's siding. The two men rose and tried to escape, both catching the impact of the bullets, their bodies convulsing in a macabre death dance before collapsing in a pool of blood. Jarod tackled Juanito, taking him down to the sidewalk and covering him with his body. A bullet clipped his upper arm, hot and painful, another nipped at his upper thigh. It seemed to go on forever.

The salvo ceased. The unnatural silence that followed was punctuated by an odd barking laugh as the car sped away.

Jarod rolled over then sat up, and immediately collapsed back to the ground. Hot stabs of pain spiking up through his shoulder. His blood pooled onto the sidewalk, thick and red. He knew he needed medical attention, but his wounds were not mortal. He was worried about Juanito. The boy wasn't moving. Feeling a little dizzy, he looked over at Juanito. The boy's white jersey over his shoulder was stained bright red. Jarod's first instinct was to hold the boy, but his medical know-how inserted itself, warning him against immediately moving the boy without knowing the extent of the wounds. He felt for Juanito's pulse and found it weak and thready. People began to gather on the sidewalk around the target houses. A drive-by shooting was all too common in this area. These people all too familiar with mourning. A woman on the porch cried over one of the dead young men, the sound of her sorrow competing with the sounds of wailing sirens growing closer. Though a haze of pain, Jarod saw Juanito's mother run out of the house two doors down.

"Juanito! Juanito," she cried, her voice oddly far away.  "Where is my son?" She pushed her way though the gathering crowd. "Oh, Juanito!" she cried when she saw them. "Holy mother of God."

Three police cruisers, two paramedic vans and an ambulance arrived. Revolving lights flashing over the crowd painting faces in reds and blues. As one policeman began to push back the crowd, another began roping off the crime scene and four paramedics jumped out of the van. A policeman pulled Juanito's mother away and tried to comfort her while the paramedics worked. Two paramedics tended Jarod. They give him oxygen, put him on a heart monitor, then lifted him to a backboard with c-collar and started an IV drip. Jarod moved his head and saw they did the same with Juanito, but they had started two IVs. That was good, he thought hazily, take care of the boy first.

"How are you feeling?" asked one paramedic, a young man with shaggy blonde hair. "How you doing? Can you breathe?"

"I've been shot through the upper chest," Jarod replied, voice hoarse. "I can breath okay, so I don't think I have a pneumothorax."

The paramedic looked up, surprise in his face. "You're a doctor."

"Not today," Jarod replied with a faint smile.

"Funny guy," the paramedic replied. "I like to see that in my patients."

They wheeled Jarod to one of the waiting ambulances. They had already loaded Juanito and through fading vision, Jarod watched it leave with a wail of sirens and flashing lights.

*    *    *    *

One Week Later

Although only 8 in the morning, the day was already hot. Heat waves distorted distant gravestones and dying flowers. Overhead in a tree, cicadas sounded like thousands of tiny ratchets. Sweat plastered Jarod's t-shirt against his back, but he didn't notice this discomfort. The newly dug grave held his full attention. Fresh yellow flowers were already wilting. One life cut short too young. Nothing could bring him back. The sound of footsteps intruded upon his grief. His heart leapt, and he spun around, relieved to find a uniformed, motorcycle policeman walking up. The man removed his helmet, nodded and together they stood silently paying respects to Juanito.

"You're Jarod," the policeman finally broke the silence.  "I just wanted to thank you for making a difference in Juanito's life." He held out a hand and they shook. "I'm Eduardo, Juanito's uncle. His father was my brother." His sigh was shaky. He cleared his throat and gestured to the headstone next to Juanito's.  "That's my brother there. Like father like son. He caught a stray bullet during a rival gang shootout. I didn't think I'd be standing here again so soon, we buried him just last year." He swallowed and brushed at his eyes with the back of one hand. 

"Juanito spoke a lot about you and his father," Jarod said.  "You're his hero. He wants to be a policeman when he grows up."

"I wish I could have helped him. Now it's too late. I work a lot and Connie, Juanito's mother, is busy with the twins…."  He shrugged. "She didn't have much time for Juanito, especially after my brother died. I live alone and have plenty of room so I offered Connie my house to get her away from the neighborhood, but she refused. Seems like this last incident convinced her. She's moving in tomorrow. Too late for Juanito." 

"At least the twins have a chance," Jarod said. "He didn't deserve this. Two days before the drive-by, he mentioned those two next door. He said they were some kind of trouble. I should have listened. Maybe this could have been avoided."

"Don't blame yourself. You're a brave man, Jarod.…?" the policeman left it a question. 

"Phillips, "Jarod replied. It was the name he had been using since coming to Phoenix two months ago. "Jarod Phillips."

"You and Juanito just were in the wrong place at the wrong time." He crouched down and placed his hand on the gravestone. "Damn. The police report said you took two bullets when you shielded Juanito." Eduardo stood and gestured toward Jarod's arm still in a sling. "That's more than most would have done. You thought about Juanito first."

"Not that it did a lot of good." Jarod swallowed away the emotion that threatened to swamp him. He couldn't indulge in sorrow now. He had to think, had to come up with a plan. "Do they know who did it?"

"We have some ideas. The targets—those men on the porch—died at the scene. We have no living witnesses other than you." 

"That was automatic gunfire I heard," Jarod said. "If I were to take a guess, I'd say it had been an MP5. Where do you find those types of weapons?"

"There are several sources in the city if one has the right connections. We believe one source is a motorcycle gang, but we haven't been able to prove anything. We've tried an investigation a year ago, but two officers turned up dead on the outskirts of town. Executed. Two bullets each through the head. Then the feds came in and took over, but nothing came of it. A few busts, small time dealers, but they didn't get the supplier."The policeman shifted and tucked his helmet under his arm. "The stash was said to be in a warehouse at the edge of the city. But when the feds got there, it'd been emptied."

"They'd been tipped off?" Jarod asked.

Eduardo nodded. "That's what a few of us suspect. It all points to someone in the department accepting a payoff, but cops are not willing to point a fingers at one another."

"Which motorcycle gang do you suspect?"

"There are several in the area. The Demons are the main suspects. Their leader is Crossfire. It's alleged that they supply guns to the street gangs, or at least they're one of the bigger suppliers. The two killed on the porch were informants."

Jarod's eyes narrowed. An idea began to bloom. "How does one become a biker?"

"It's more complicated than you'd think," Eduardo started out. "You have to have a Harley first, there is no substitute. You have to know someone, you have to hang with the bikers and then they have to accept you as one of them and then, maybe, you'll be asked to join--," Eduardo's voice trailed off, and he looked sharply at the taller man. 

Jarod's expression hardened, his hands clenched at his thighs. "I need to become a biker."

"Wait a minute! No. *_No!_*", Eduardo repeated with more  emphasis. "No way, man. What you're suggesting is crazy.  Loco! Juanito's death hurts us all, and I'd like to go after those bastards, too. I'd like to blow them all to hell with their own guns, but that's not the way to do it. They'd see through someone like you in a blink."

"Every other way has failed," Jarod's voice was harsh, "and as you said, you may have a department leak."

"Look man, you don't have the look, you don't have the experience." Eduardo held out his hands as if pleading with Jarod to see reason. "You don't know what you're getting into."

"I've done this before. This will just take a bit more planning than usual."

"Don't tell me you're in law enforcement," Eduardo said.

"I pretended once," Jarod replied, his mind already jumping ahead, planning. This would be unlike anything he'd done before, not like the limping hitman, not like the safecracker. Not even the convict persona he assumed could give him a clue to what awaited him.

"Look Jarod, I know you're angry," Eduardo was saying."I'm angry, too. I've just come from Connie's house.  She walks around the house, hour after hour, holding her babies and crying. We don't want another dead body."

"If there is one, it won't be mine. I need your help."

Eduardo sighed. "Why do I believe you? _Madre de dios_."

"Help me," Jarod whispered. "For Juanito."

Eduardo sighed and looked across the sea of gravestones, like so many dominos. "I have a friend named Martin, he lives locally and repairs motorcycles for the gangs. We've known each other for years, and used to ride together before I went into law enforcement. He owes me a few favors. I've kept him out of jail a time or two. I can't guarantee he'll help you, but he may be able to give us some information." 

Jarod's smile was thin, and the hoarse anger in his voice sent a shiver down Eduardo's back. "I promise I'll bring to justice the man who killed Juanito." Or die trying, he added silently. And for the first time in his life Jarod felt an alien emotion creeping through him, trying to grasp him in a stranglehold. Later he would recognize it as doubt.

*    *    *    *

The Centre, Blue Cove, Delaware

Lyle walked across the Centre's lobby and into the elevator on his way to his office. His thumb throbbed today more than usual, but he ignored it.  As the elevator doors began to slide close, a hand slipped in and held them open. Raines walked in, pulling along his squeaking oxygen tank. The two were silent until the doors closed and the elevator started up. 

"Lyle, we need to talk," Raines rasped, and inhaled deeply. "It's about your sister."

Lyle raised an eyebrow. "Tell me."  It had been too quiet around the Centre.  Jarod had dropped out of site.  He had people working on it.

"I think something happened between her and Jarod at the island," Raines said. 

The younger man hid his surprise. "What kind of something?"

"I think you should hear it for yourself," Raines said. "I've doubted her loyalties for some time. After the incident on the island and the airplane, I've had a team watching her, and her phone is tapped."

Lyle was impressed, but he knew he shouldn't be surprised. Raines was always one of the more devious employees of the Center; it was why he survived when others did not. It appeared his sister had underestimated him as well. The elevator doors opened on the level were Raine had taken over Parker Sr.'s office.

"Come with me," he said.

Lyle and Raines stepped out and two sweepers, who had been waiting, flanked them

"Is the muscle necessary," Lyle asked. Raines cast him a glance. With his pasty white skin, he reminded Lyle of a skeleton with eyeballs. He had a difficult time believing this man was his father.

"The walls have ears, Lyle, and I want to make certain what you're going to hear and see remains between us." He unlocked his office and allowed Lyle to precede him inside. The sweepers took up guard at the doors. Raines crossed his office to a television hooked up to a recorder. He slipped in a disk and took up the remote. Miss Parker in her house filled the screen. The phone rang and she picked it up.

_**"What?" she said in her usual abrupt manner.**_

_**"So, what do you think they said?" **_

Lyle jerked at the sound of Jarod's voice. Miss Parker spoke to him like it was an everyday occurrence. Like she was used to Jarod's calls.

_**"The scrolls? **_

_**"I was hoping you had some answers, insights into the so-called prophesies," Jarod said.**_

_**"Those answers are somewhere in the ocean along with my – Do you think that there's any chance that he bailed for the right reasons, Jarod or -- or was his Geronimo another one of his lies?"**_

Lyle had wondered the same thing.

_**"I don't know, maybe it's time you gave yourself that gift he never gave you -- the truth," Jarod answered.**_

_**"I hope you find your mother," Miss Parker said.**_

Here Raines put the tape on pause for a moment. "Clearly a sign that her efforts are not wholly for the Centre."

"Clearly," Lyle agreed. "Is there more?"

"Yes," Raines rasped. "It gets worse". He hit the play button.

_**"And what about us?" Jarod asked.**_

There was a note of hope, of longing in his voice that surprised Lyle. Jarod had feelings for Miss Parker. Now that was interesting. Completely unexpected.

_**"You run, I chase, that choice was made for us a long time ago."**_

Raines clicked off the recorder. "The rest is inconsequential."

What did his sister do with Jarod on that island? The thought of Miss Parker thawing out enough to have sex with Jarod, the lab rat, was almost nauseating. "Without evidence of this tape I would have had doubts. This makes a lot of things very clear."

"Do you think she's been letting him go intentionally?"

"Not up to now," Lyle replied. "But I can't say that will be the case in the future. I think this attraction is something that finally came to a head on that island, but if she feels more for him than she's letting on, then that explains her reluctance to hurt him. All it takes is a bullet in the knee and he's down. She hasn't been able to do that."

"I don't think she can be trusted."

"I agree, but I think we should do nothing for now. This can be used to our advantage," Lyle said, a plan coming to mind. "Let's keep up surveillance and I'll see what else I can find. She may be our carrot to dangle in front of Jarod, then we can remove her at the right time and take over." He crossed his arms and stared down at the surveillance tape. "I think the time for playing nice with Jarod is past." 

"Very good, Lyle," Raines rasped and breathed. "I knew I could count on you."

"Of course," Lyle said and lifted an eyebrow. As if there had been any doubt. He was always loyal when it suited him.

**End of Chapter One**


	2. Anger Like That

**Hogwild**

**Chapter Two**: "Anger Like That"

Martin's place, aptly named Hog Heaven—as stated by a faded,hand painted wood sign—was ten miles out of Phoenix at the end of a dusty road hemmed by cactus and a barbed-wire fence. In a wooden corral, a burro grazed on sparse, yellow grass and two cattle dogs lazed in the shade under a rusty car. There were motorcycles and parts strewn everywhere, a death shrine to Harley-Davidsons and Indians of a time long past. The house was a sprawling, one-story shack just a little better than the burro's shed. Two wooden chairs flanked a decrepit bench swing and an ashtray was filled with butts.

Jarod climbed out of Eduardo's truck, fascinated. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked around. There appeared to be no one home.

"Come on," Eduardo said, "Martin's usually out back in his shop."

Jarod glanced once over his shoulder and just down the road, he saw a black official looking sedan pull to the side and idle under the meager shade of a tall saguaro cactus. Eduardo didn't notice and Jarod didn't tell him. 

Over the past week, while waiting for Eduardo's break from work, Jarod had done his own research on the man known as Martin. His real name was Stanley Martinez. He was both an accepted insider and an outsider of the local biker culture. In bikerspeak, he was a lone wolf, one who wasn't a member of any particular game. Partly,this was due to his profession; he maintained the integrity of motorcycles and performed award-winning restorations for a dozen motorcycle gangs from as far away as Texas. Hog Heaven was a sacred no man's land where an unspoken truce meant anyone could comfortably leave their most holiest of possessions. To a biker, a good mechanic was as important as a daycare was to worried parents; one didn't leave their most precious child to just anyone.

Jarod followed Eduardo to the rear of the house and around a large, shady grove of cottonwood. The distant desert hills glimmered through heat waves. The back of the house's property was a surprise. A modern metal garage with two bays sat in a well-swept, cemented area. From inside came the muted soud of a pneumatic wrench. The door was unlocked and they entered the relative coolness of the garage. Four industrial-sized fans whirred overhead and a modern air-conditioning unit hummed in the background. The inside of the garage was as neat as the outside, and contained bikes in various stages of repair or restoration. A paint booth, draped with white plastic, was off to one side. The walls were lined with posters of modified Harley-Davidson motorcycles with half-nude, buxom women sitting on them. One large-breasted, brunette model who suggestively straddled a Harley, wore nothing but a g-string. Jarod raised one eyebrow. She looked a lot like Miss Parker, except Miss Parker had better legs. Irritated at his train of thought, Jarod silently berated himself. She had shown him her mind in the taxi, rejecting him. And their last phone conversation after his escape from the plane, confirmed her dedication to The Centre. That cat couldn't change her stripes. It had been difficult for him to accept.

The pneumatic wrench stopped and Eduardo took the opportunity to hail the as yet unseen owner of Hog Heaven. 

"Martin!" he shouted. The sound brought Jarod back to the present and reminded him why he was here.

A tall man stood up. He had a shaved head and a thick mustache. He was shirtless, heavily muscled, and a pair of greasy blue jeans hugged his hips. A winged gold and silver belt buckled was emblazoned with the Harley-Davidson symbol.

"Hang for a bit, there's beer in the fridge!" he shouted, then he saw Eduardo and a grin spread over his stern features. "Hey, what the hell, man! What brings you way out here?"

"Just thought it was time for a visit," Eduardo replied.

Jarod watched with interest their complicated series of handshakes. "Keeping out of trouble?"

"As much as possible." Martin gave Jarod a one-eyed squint. "I've never seen you around. You a cop, too?" 

"Not at the moment," Jarod replied.

"Funny guy" Martin grunted, his tone implying the opposite. 

"This is Jarod, he's a friend of mine and was a good friend of Juanito's."

Martin crossed to a refrigerator and pulled out three beers, keeping one for himself and tossing the other two to his visitors. "I heard about Juanito." Martin sat on a wooden bench, hung his head and shook it. "Man, that's just too fucking sad."

"Jarod was there," Eduardo said. Jarod found himself under intense scrutiny.

"You must be the guy who took two for Juanito. That was a hell of thing you did," Martin said, and held out his hand and they shook, a symbolic thawing of his attitude toward an outsider. "To Juanito." Martin held up his beer can for the toast and the other two did the same.

The three drank their beers in silence, uncomfortable with their respective thoughts of their own mortality, and of death and dying. Jarod wasn't used to beer, but it felt wonderfully cool after the heat of the afternoon sun.

"So what brings you out here, Ed?" Martin broke the silence.

"Need your help," Eduardo replied. "Don't know who else to ask."

"You know I owe you a few, but I can't say I like the sound of this. It's too serious." He finished off his beer in one gulp, belched loudly and thumped his chest with a fist. He crushed the can in one big hand, threw it in a recycle bin and took another beer from the fridge.

"Serious. Yeah." Eduardo scratched the back of his head. "It's like this, man…"

Eduardo explained and throughout the monologue, Martin said nothing; he finished his second beer, fished a tobacco pouch and rolling papers out of a back pocket and proceeded to roll himself a cigarette. Martin smoked silently for a moment, staring hard at the smoke rings he made. After Eduardo finished, silence descended on the trio for a few long minutes until Martin finally spoke, his voice level.

"Let me repeat what you said just so's I get it right. You want me to help him," he pointed at Jarod, "become a biker so he can infiltrate the Demons and expose a gun running ring." Martin took a long drag off the cigarette. "You know what I think? I think you're both fucking nuts," he mumbled through his lips wrapped around the cigarette. He braced his hands on his thighs and rose off the bench. "I owe you one, but no way can I take sides, amigo. You know what would happen to me if Crossfire found out." 

"I know what I'm asking," Eduardo said, anguish making him look older than his thirty-two years. "I can't trust anyone else. You haven't seen Connie, it's like she's a zombie. I have to do something." 

"Why isn't the department investigating?" Martin asked.

"There is an investigation, but nothing will come of it. Dead leads, closed mouths. I think there's a leak in the department; Crossfire's paying someone off to look the other way and make certain everyone else does, as well."

Martin straddled a black motorcycle and took a long drag off his cigarette. "I'm not surprised."

"Do this for Juanito."

"Jesus H. Christ, Ed, that ain't fair." His brows came down over his eyes. "You know I loved that boy like he were my own."

"All you have to do is help me in. After that, I can make it on my own," Jarod finally spoke.

Martin stared at Jarod like he'd sprouted two head. "I have to give it to you stright, dude, there aint' no fucking way you're going to pass for a biker. My grand pappy looks more like a biker than you do, and he's probably meaner, too."

"I'm a quick study, and no one else can do it. He doesn't know me." Jarod was reluctant to play the trump card he'd brought along. Going into a pretend as dangerous as this, it was vital that he gain this man's trust.

Martin shook his head. "No man, I won't do it."

Jarod had no choice. He took his wallet out of his pocket, and held out an identification card. "You don't understand, Martin, aka Stanley Martinez, you don't have a choice."

Martin stared at the ID. "Jarod Ness, FBI? God damn, he's a fed! Fuck, Ed." The biker glared at his friend. "What the hell you doing bringing a fed here?"

"I didn't know!" Eduardo returned. He looked ready to run. Jarod had guessed that Eduardo knew about the shady side of Hog Heaven, and it wouldn't be good for his career. "Why didn't you tell me, Jarod?"

"You didn't ask." Out of the back pocket of his black slacks, Jarod pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Martin. "I have hard evidence that this is a chop shop for stolen motorcycles and vehicles."

Martin snatched the paper out of Jarod's hand and read it, his mustache emphasizing his frown. "Damn." His eyes were bright and there was more than just a little fear. 

"With the evidence that I believe I'll find here, you'll be living out your next ten years in the federal pen." Martin was white under his tan. Jarod hated to do this, but it was necessary. He continued: "I've found that you wanted to start your own legitimate motorcycle shop down in Phoenix, but you can't get a business loan, not with two counts of grand theft auto, resisting arrest and the fact that the Demons, and its leader Crossfire, won't allow you to leave, not alive anyway."

Martin's shoulders slumped. "I wasn't given much choice." He crossed to a trashcan and dropped the paper inside. "If I don't go along with Crossfire's business proposition, I'm dead. He delivers motorcycles, and occasionally a car, and I do what he tells me."

"That can end," Jarod said quietly. "If we get Crossfire, my organization will give you the money to start your own legitimate business." _Money from the Centre_, Jarod thought.  Martin didn't have to know that.  "The burden of his control will be lifted." 

"This is not going to be easy." His expression was a mixture of trepidation and hope. "If I get killed, I'm coming back to haunt both yer asses, and I ain't gonna be no Casper the friendly fucking ghost. You hear?" 

"Who's Casper?" Jarod asked.

"Where the hell did you say you found this guy? Under a rock?" Martin fingered his mustache. "Feds think they're too good to watch cartoons?"

Jarod walked outside, and the two men followed him. He took out his cell phone and made a call to the driver in the black car. The black car pulled up into the cement drive in front of the garage and Jarod spoke in low tones to the passenger. They two men were actually strangers he'd hired to drive the black car and look official. It was enough to impress Martin and Eduardo. If they had any doubts to his ID, it was dispelled.

Martin had retired to the ramshackle porch and sat in a chair. Jarod walked up, Eduardo hovering nervously behind.

"What did yer people tell you about the Demons," Martin asked, his eyes narrowed on Jarod.

"The Demons are a motorcycle gang. Their leader is Anthony Noonan, AKA Crossfire. His first lieutenant is Shane Murray, AKA Blackbeard. There was a federal investigation into their activities last year, two Phoenix police dead, nothing that could be traced back to any of the Demon members.  Without sufficient evidence, the were charges dropped."

"Okay G-man, you got some of it. Even I didn't know Crossfire's real name. For this plan to have any freakin' chance in hell ofworking, you will have to change yer appearance. If you try to even talk to Crossfire lookin' like that he'll put a bullet between yer eyes then dump yer dumb ass in the desert. Yer body won't be found until long after the buzzards pick yer bones clean." Martin grunted. "Grow a beard, and your hair needs to be longer, scruffier. And get rid of them city clothes. You look like yer posing for freakin' pussy GQ magazine or something."

Jarod stroked his chin and nodded, although he was hesitant to mention that he'd never seen a GQ magazine.

"And all that's just the easiest part, G-man. You gotta change yer attitude. You gotta be a mean motherfucker. A one-percenter."

"One-percenter?" Jarod wasn't certain he liked the sound of that. 

"We're going to fucking die," Martin mumbled to himself. Exasperated he continued: "A one-percenter is like Crossfire, he represents the worst 1 percent of the population. The nastiest of the outlaw bikers, answers to no one, and no law. You gotta be that to be a Demon, one of the gang. Act like it, walk it, live it and most of all you gotta believe it! And never for a second forget that yer the meanest motherfucker on two wheels, because if Crossfire gets a feeling that something about you ain't right, yer dead and I'm dead. I can't stress it enough."

"Yeah I know, bullet between the eyes, body in the desert, buzzards picking my bones."

"At least you learn fast. Maybe there's hope for us both." He rolled another cigarette but didn't light it.  "You need a new name. A street name."

"What's wrong with Jarod?" Jarod asked.

"No, you'll need something new, something that will get you into the frame of mind. And you're going to be my cousin. A few buds of mine know I have some cousins back east, that way no one will ask a lot of questions. Crossfire can be real paranoid, that's why he's stayed in business so long."

"How about Syke," Eduardo spoke up. "I had an old biker pal who was a psycho bastard, we called him Syke for short."

Martin lifted one eyebrow. "Well, at least it'll be a name for the G-man to live up to. And that means yer attitude needs a major adjustment." Martin scrutinized him with that one-eyed squint again. "Your problem is that yer too… friendly. You don't have that edge. I think yer parents were too nice to you or something, they didn't slap you around enough."

"No one slapped me around, and I never knew my parents." Jarod lifted an eyebrow, and the anger that simmered made the desert heat seem chilly .

Martin pointed a greasy finger at Jarod; he stood up and walked down the stairs. "There! Right _there_! You had it for an instance. That was the anger. Bring it back and magnify it tenfold."

"No." 

"Wrong answer!" He shaped his fingers into a gun and held it toward Jarod's forehead. "Ka-pow! Right through the brainpan."

Frustrated, Jarod knew he was failing the test. He'd pretended so many times, so many things. He couldn't fail at this, he failed Juanito once, and the injustice of it consumed him. Still a part of him balked, an inner voice warned him that the anger would devour him if he let it out. "I don't know if I can control it."

"That's the idea, man," Martin said with a funny smile. "So what's the deal with yer parents that gets you cross-eyed? Yo' momma have too much of a good time with some jack in the back of a car, had you, then done run off and left you?"

"No." The rage strained to claw free from its cage. Jarod's hands clenched. He forced them to relax; he forced the anger away.

"Well something about yo' momma's got you all screwed up." 

"The situation is complicated and it's not a subject I talk about. I think we should find another way." Jarod was pleased with his mild replied. 

Martin whistled and raised an eyebrow. He folded one hand into the palm of the other and cracked his knuckles, the gleam in his eyes predatory. "So talkin' about yer momma pisses you off, doesn't it?"

"Something like that." 

Martin nodded. "Sounds to me yer parents up and left your ass, and you still have a few issues with it."

"I don't know… I don't remember."

"Were you adopted?"

"No," Jarod growled. "Leave it."

**_They led him from a car, and he had a black bag over his head_. _He couldn't see where he was going_. He didn't know where his parents were. _He was frightened but he was brave._ _They put him in a room by himself_. _Where were his parents?_ _Why didn't they come for him? He ran his hands through his hair and tried to remember. **_

_**They call him Jarod.****Who called him Jarod? His parents? Was it a Centre name? Was it_ _his real name?**_

"So speak, G-man, let me know that behind them fancy street clothes and mild façade that you're as fucked up as the rest of us."

"I don't know the truth!" The words were torn from him, and he grappled with an inward hot core that began to unfurl, fury with a face of hot anger. His sense of self raped, his inside torn open and exploited. His path set forever and too late to set it back. A marked man. Forever. Even if he found his parents, the past would never be set right. Would not be erased. Too many years lost. He pressed his hands to the side of his head. "I grew up in a  
research center. My parents didn't know where I'd gone."

"Maybe that's just what they wanted you to think," said Martin's voice, sounding like it came from a long way away and through a tunnel. "Have they ever tried to find you, or is the search one-sided?"

One sided, an inner voice told Jarod. Never doubt them… but I do. My life is filled with uncertainty.

"Jarod, you know what," that voice continued to taunt him, "I think it sounds like there are other things you don't know, like, the fucking bitch you call yer momma up and left yer ass!" 

"NO!" Jarod raged, he spun and leapt toward his tormenter, all sanity gone, a shimmer of madness in his eyes. Martin dodged, feinted to the left and jumped off the porch into the dusty yard. The dogs lying under the car jumped up and began barking, frantic, adding to the voices in Jarod's head.

_**He misses his parents.**_

_**He'll forget them.**_

He never did. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jarod said, voice low and hoarse.

"It's easy to guess, dude," Martin replied, moving back and forth, staying out of Jarod's reach. "Just look at you. I think all the family you have right now is some dysfunctional motherfuckers that made you their bitch."

Jarod roared and closed the steps separating him and Martin tried to feint again, but Jarod was ready for him. He'd seen Martin pull that trick once, and once was enough. Jarod's fist connected with Martin's jaw. The large biker, a veteran of many bar brawls and bare-knuckled fights, staggered back and quickly recovered. Jarod and Martin were of the same height, but the biker had a good fifty pounds over Jarod, however, Jarod had the advantage of speed and anger. 

Martin sidestepped, ducked and threw in a jab, catching Jarod in the stomach. The air whooshed from his lungs. It felt like someone had struck him with a steel girder. He tried to retreat to gain his breath but Martin stayed with him. Jarod dropped his guard and let Martin come at him. At the last second, he feinted with right and came in with a left hook that cracked Martin in the side of the cheek and jaw. The skin split and the blood flew outward in an   
arc. Martin's legs wobbled. Jarod drove in a follow-up right hook and Martin went down. Jarod was after him, down on his knees straddling him, his right cocked back. Eduardo ran up, leapt on Jarod's back and tried to pull him off. Jarod twisted, using his elbow to hook Eduardo and send him backward. He immediately jumped back up and wrapped an arm around Jarod's throat in a chokehold. 

"Jarod! Stop! _Esta loco como una cabra_!

Jarod shook off Eduardo like a big dog shaking off a small one. He stood up, looking down at Martin, his breathing heavy and angered.  

Martin looked up at Jarod. "Jesus fucking Christ, G-man, you've got it in you, all you needed was a little push." The biker spat out a long string of spit and blood into the dirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and worked his jaw back and forth.  "At least you didn't break it, though it feels like you did. I haven't had a good thumpin' like that in a few years. Guess I was due."

Some of the anger drained out of Jarod, but he held onto a portion of it. His voice was rough when he spoke: "You did this on purpose."

"Hell yeah. Had to." He held up a hand, Jarod hesitated, then helped the man to his feet. "You'll need to embrace that inferno, you remember that anger and when the time comes you be that one-percenter and maybe we'll both live through this." Martin touched the back of his hand to his bleeding forehead. "Shit, that hurts like a mother. Let's go get a beer and we can find you a sled."

"Sled?" asked Jarod, the rage making him dizzy as he tried to fight it down. He wasn't quite ready to forgive.

"A ride, you know, a motorcycle. You can't ride a moped and join a biker gang." Martin walked a little unsteady back into the shop. "And by the way Jarod."

"What?"

"You've got some serious issues about yer momma."  
  
End of Chapter 2


End file.
